


a chance that doth redeem all sorrows

by angevin2



Category: 14th Century CE RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It (For Most People), Gratuitous Mythological References, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Terrible Medieval Medicine, The Irish Question, gratuitous literary references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 01:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angevin2/pseuds/angevin2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In June 1394, Anne of Bohemia, Queen of England, makes a seemingly miraculous recovery from the plague.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a chance that doth redeem all sorrows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gehayi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gehayi/gifts).



> In real life, Anne of Bohemia died of what was probably pneumonic or septicemic plague -- these forms of the disease are less common than the better-known bubonic plague, but they are more or less 100% fatal without antibiotics, and both of them kill you much faster than bubonic plague does (septicemic plague, for instance, can kill you within hours). Granted, bubonic plague is no slouch itself, but relatively speaking it is more survivable than the other kinds, with a fatality rate around 70%. So I made that my point of canon divergence -- that Anne gets the slightly more survivable kind of plague, and doesn't die. 
> 
> Many thanks to S. for beta-reading, K. for general support, and to R. for the ins and outs of medieval plague treatment, and the eagles in Norwich. I didn't use the thing with the pigeons though. Poor Anne has suffered enough.

The feast of the Trinity has always been painful for Richard.

He knows, of course, that it isn't right to feel uncomfortable about a holy day. But it has been celebrated eighteen times since his father died, and every year until now he has passed the solemn feast remembering standing by his father's bedside at Westminster, watching him gasping out prayers through gritted teeth until he'd exhausted his last strength, and then just watching him breathe until all of a sudden he _didn't._

What Richard remembers most, though, is his mother. She'd screamed his father's name and fallen on her knees and wept, and Richard had wanted to be strong for her and had laid his arm across her shoulders, and she'd reached up and gripped his hand so tightly it hurt. 

This year he hasn't even thought of his father's anniversary until now. 

Anne fell ill on Whitsunday. She'd been tired and feverish the night before, and had had no appetite, but she'd insisted it had been nothing, that she would be better after some sleep. In the morning she'd been unable to get out of bed. Richard had sent for a physician to examine her.

It was then that they saw the tokens.

Richard doesn't remember much after that, only the blind panic and desperation and the arms holding him back from her, and somewhere in the back of his memory he can hear his own voice screaming that this is treason, to lay hands on him, he'll have all of their heads for it. He'd wanted to die with her, to throw himself into her arms and let the pestilence take him too, and the devil take the realm, because without Anne in it there was no point to any of it.

Except that she didn't die. 

It only takes a few days for the pestilence to kill. Richard had watched her day and night, from as close as anyone would allow, surrounded by torches and herbs to drive out the infectious air, and prayed to God to let her have another breath, and another, and then another -- later he would remember, suddenly and vividly, watching his father's final, labored exhalations, and wonder if his mother had done the same. On the fourth day, the physicians gave him syrup of mandragora and promises to notify him at once if anything changed. He didn't drink it. It felt too much like daring to hope.

And then, on Trinity Sunday, her fever broke. Richard had fallen prostrate in simultaneous thanksgiving and exhaustion at the news, and everyone in the room had rushed to his side and then, once assured that he was all right, knelt very awkwardly and crossed themselves. It had been a very strange feeling. He'd almost laughed at it -- except that after helping him to his feet they'd reminded him that it was possible she might relapse, and it would be necessary to wait several days to make sure, and then he had no longer felt like laughing, because it would have required him to breathe. 

On the eve of Corpus Christi, they tell him that Anne will live. 

One year, on Trinity Sunday, Richard's father died, and another, on Corpus Christi, a mob broke into the Tower of London and burned half of it to the ground, and even though he will always remember these griefs, nevertheless Richard will keep these feast days above any other, because Anne will live, _Anne will live,_ and all other sorrows can be borne lightly when weighed with that great joy.

When he is finally admitted to Anne's bedside she is lying back against the cushions, looking tiny and fragile, even wrapped head to toe in damp fleece. The only color in her face is in the dark hollows under her eyes. For a moment Richard fears that everything has been a delusion, some cruelty of his imagination -- but the soft rise and fall of her chest is even, and when he kneels beside her and strokes her cheek gently and whispers her name her eyes open and she smiles up at him -- just a tiny smile, that's all she can manage -- and he can feel fresh tears stinging his eyes.

"Richard," she says. Her voice is small and hoarse, almost a squeak. "Don't cry."

"I thought I'd lost you," he says. "They'd all said -- they gave you the last rites, do you remember? They told me -- " Richard's throat is so tight he can scarcely finish. "They said there was nothing to be done but pray for your soul, and I couldn't, Anne, I couldn't let you go."

"I wasn't afraid of dying," Anne says. "God was calling me, but -- " She sighs heavily and closes her eyes for a moment, nearly exhausted by the effort of speaking. "May he forgive me, Richard -- I couldn't leave you."

"It's all right, Anne," Richard insists. He wants nothing more than to climb onto the bed beside her and wrap his arms around her, but he knows it's impossible, when she is still weak from the endless rounds of sweating and bleeding and cupping. The physicians have said that she must remain immobile for the next month; there have been patients who have recovered from the pestilence and yet died from the effort of sitting up in bed. Richard can't even make himself think of that possibility. He settles for brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead before letting his fingers come to rest gently on her cheek. "I know God is merciful, because he let you come back to me. It's all right. You should rest now."

"Stay with me?" Anne says. "I promise I'll sleep. I just want to hear your voice."

Richard has not been this close to Anne since she was taken ill. In his desperation to see her, he had blackened poor Edward of Rutland's eye and threatened him with charges of treason for laying hands on him. Later, when it had become clear that there was hope for Anne's recovery, he had gone to Edward and explained that he had not been himself, and Edward had just given him a small smile and said "I understand -- when you love someone that much..." He'd trailed off then, but when Richard had raised a gentle finger to the yellowing bruise on his cheekbone he'd taken Richard's hand and kissed it.

Richard touches his thumb first to his own lips and then to Anne's. "No power on earth can drag me away," he says, pulling a chair to her bedside. 

Except that, now that it comes to it, he can't actually talk. Well, he _can,_ but she needs to rest, and it feels like it's been years, rather than only days, since there has been a world outside this chamber. He can't tell her how he hasn't been able to sleep or even _breathe_ or how, faced with the prospect of losing her, his entire world had contracted to the inside of a small dark crack in his heart, or how all of the days of his life stretched on endlessly before him, how badly he'd wanted to be rid of them all. It would only make her worry about him -- she's nearly _died,_ and of course she'd be concerned about _him_ first.

"What if I read to you?" he says, and Anne smiles and nods.

The only book on hand, as it happens, is her book of hours, and it's well past matins but he begins with the first psalm in the office anyway because it's so fitting:

" _Venite exultemus Domino, iubilemus Deo salutari nostro..._ "

_Come exalt in the Lord; let us rejoice in God our savior._

When he gets to the end and pauses for a moment to rest his voice, she doesn't react, and he's sure she's fallen asleep. He sits beside her in silence, just watching her breathe once more, thanking God again and again with each breath.

"Richard?" she says then, without even opening her eyes.

"I'm here," he says. "You should try to sleep, though."

"I smell like a sheep," she says.

The laughter escapes his throat before he can really stop himself, and he feels terrible about it at first, except that then Anne opens her eyes and is giving him that _oh, dear God, Richard, I don't know what's wrong with you but I love you anyway_ look he thought he'd never see again, and there's laughter in her eyes, if not in her mouth. And then he thinks that maybe it's all right.

***

Richard spends hours at Anne's bedside every day, even when she's almost too tired to be fully conscious that he's there. He talks to her the whole time, until he's so hoarse it actually hurts to listen to him. Sometimes he reads the daily offices to her; more often, he reads poetry, which is especially nice because a lot of it is in English and when she doesn't have the energy to concentrate on the meaning she can just drift off on the sound of Richard's voice. By the time she's free from damp fleece wraps and enforced motionlessness, she's heard the entire _Confessio Amantis_ , but she doesn't think she could begin to say what it was about.

It makes her think, when she begins feeling well enough that she actually _can_ think, of an old poem she'd heard at court, years ago when she hadn't really known any English, certainly not enough to understand poetry in it even when it wasn't (as Richard had explained to her later) rather old-fashioned. It had been based on the old Greek story of Orpheus, but in this version, Orpheus was a king -- in England, even -- and when his queen was snatched away by the King of Faerie, he'd succeeded in bringing her home, and once they'd proved that his faithful steward hadn't stolen his kingdom in his absence, they'd lived happily ever after.

"But that's not how the story goes," Anne had said, afterwards. "He loses her in the underworld, and then he's torn apart by the priestesses of Bacchus."

"Well, yes," Richard said, "but I like this version better, don't you?"

"I suppose I do," Anne had said, and she'd smiled at him, because she may not have understood the poem, but when she'd studied Latin, she'd been a maiden, and now the idea of a happy ending for Orpheus and his bride had a much greater appeal. 

Richard had laughed, and kissed her. "I'd sing to the King of Faerie for you, you know," he said, and then paused. Richard had always been hopeless when it comes to anything musical. "Maybe not _sing._ That probably wouldn't work very well." And Anne had laughed in her turn and kissed him back.

She'd almost forgotten about it, until now. 

Anne doesn't remember much specifically about being ill, except that it had hurt more than any pain she had ever felt before. It all blurs into a nightmare of violent shivering and sweating, the piercing blade of the fleam and the burning cup they'd used to drain the swellings. That last is what haunts her remembrance the most, for it had been the worst of all, even more than the racking agony of the actual pestilence -- she had been too weak to scream, and she'd thought she would die just from the pain of it. She's still amazed that she didn't. 

Some days -- even after she is allowed light and air and even movement again -- she is so exhausted she feels like she's only a ghost, like Eurydice in the shadow of the gates of Hades. She knows that the only thing for it is to keep following. She thinks of Richard's constant vigils, in the chapel and at her bedside, and thinks that he really must have saved her, after all. She asks him, once, if he'll read the Orpheus poem to her, the English one where it ends happily, and he smiles and sends for the book. 

If Anne had had a better command of English when she'd first heard it, she might have known it was an ill-advised selection. It turns out well, perhaps, but the King of Faerie's message to the queen chills her to the bone:

_Lady, tomorrow must you be_  
 _Here beneath this orchard tree,_  
 _And then with us must you go_  
 _And live with us forevermoe._  
 _And if you any hindrance make,_  
 _Yet from this place we shall you take,_  
 _And tear your body, limbs and all,_  
 _That nothing can help you, no one shall,_  
 _And though you thus be rent and torn,_  
 _You shall with us away be borne._

All she can think about is lying there in a haze of fever watching the blood drain from her arm into a bowl. It hadn't hurt, after the initial sharp pinch of the fleam, but it had been strange. Not so bad, though, as the pain of the pestilence, which _does_ make you feel like you're being torn apart, like your insides are trying to burst forth through your skin. She closes her eyes tight against the memory -- and when she looks over at Richard, he looks as though someone has been draining _his_ blood. He presses his hand to his eyes for a moment, composing himself to continue, but it clearly pains him to read of the queen's abduction and the king's grief; his hands tremble and his eyes well up and he has to stop to breathe. 

_For I have lost my dearest queen,_  
 _The fairest lady ever seen,_  
 _I can no other woman see._  
 _Into the wild I shall flee,_  
 _And there I'll pass my latter day_  
 _With savage beasts in forests grey;_  
 _And when you know my days are spent,_  
 _Then call yourselves a parliament;_  
 _Another king you must invest._  
 _With my affairs now do your best._

Richard buries his face in his hands. "I'm sorry," he says, and after a moment his shoulders begin to shake visibly. Anne can feel her own throat tighten up -- Richard has never been one to hide his feelings, under normal circumstances, but she hasn't seen him this distraught since she was first taken ill. Of course she knows he must have suffered intensely since then, but she was too sick to really be aware of it at first, and since her recovery he's devoted all of his strength to her, enough that she sometimes wonders who's actually running the country. Even when people come to the door to speak with him they're usually dismissed quickly. Perhaps Thomas has managed to get himself put in charge at long last, and Richard's uncle is, she fears, no faithful steward. 

"Richard," she says. "Come here."

"I'm sorry," he says again, swiping at his eyes. "It's just -- I kept thinking about -- "

"I know," she says. "It's all right. Come here."

Richard climbs onto the bed beside her, and she turns to wrap her arms around him as he buries his face in her hair, clinging to her as tightly as he dares. She can feel her hair beginning to stick to her neck as it grows damp with tears. 

They've been sharing a bed, in of course a completely chaste fashion, almost since she's been allowed to move about again. The doctors have wrung their hands about it and muttered that it was probably dangerous and certainly tempting, and Anne had told them that it made her feel stronger, for Richard to be there, that there was no danger whatsoever that she'd be tempted to anything other than _getting more sleep,_ and that of _course_ her husband respects that, did they want her to tell him they'd suggested otherwise?

It hadn't really occurred to her before now that he needed it as much as she did.

"Anne -- " he says, but all he can get out afterwards is "God..."

"I know," she says, her hand smoothing slow circles on his back. "I didn't really think about it. I'm sorry." She smiles up at him. "It does have a happy ending, of course."

Richard laughs, in a small sort of way that's combined with sniffles, and she rests her head against his chest.

"It does," he says, finally. "I just can't stop thinking about -- how it almost didn't." He swallows hard. "Do you remember the anchoress of Norwich?"

"Of course," Anne says. She has always had a special love for Norwich, since that idyllic long-ago summer when she and Richard had toured the abbeys in East Anglia, and England had looked greener than it had since. They'd visited the Great Hospital, of course, and Richard had insisted before they got to the new chancel that she close her eyes because they had a surprise for her. 

By the time she opened them, she'd forgiven him for accidentally leading her into the baptismal font, because the chancel ceiling was painted with a flock of black eagles, and the joy in her heart at seeing her emblem there, over her head in a church in this strange land where she was still thought a plain little foreigner not worth the twenty thousand florins Richard had paid for her marriage, was far greater than the pain in her toes, and she'd smiled and squeezed Richard's hand and thought that she might really be at home after all.

"When they told me that you were dying," Richard says, "all I could think of was what she wrote -- 'All will be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.' And I thought it was a lie. Because nothing could ever be well again." 

Anne reaches up and brushes the hair from Richard's temple before letting her fingers rest gently on his cheek. 

"Do you want to know something?" she says. "When I was sick, the thing I was afraid of most was that I'd die before I could tell you how much I love you. And that the only thing I regretted was leaving you behind. Because even if my life was short -- it was _happy,_ Richard. More than I'd ever dared to hope for." 

"I know," Richard says, as he bends down to kiss the top of her head. "I couldn't be happy ever again, though, not without you. I don't think happiness could _exist,_ without you."

"But Dame Julian was right," she says. "All _will_ be well. I know it."

Anne is still exhausted most of the time; she hasn't had much appetite and being upright for too long makes her dizzy. The first time she tried standing up she'd actually fainted (the expression on Richard's face when she recovered still haunts her). She has faint scars on her arms from the bloodletting, and considerably more visible scars at her breast from the tokens. 

All the same, she believes it with all her heart.

***

News from Ireland comes quickly as autumn approaches. An Irish chieftain called Art MacMurrough has proclaimed himself king of Leinster and has been raising a rebellion in the southeast. He'd declared war on the English after the lands he'd acquired through his marriage had reverted to the possession of the crown, and the situation was getting ever more untenable.

Richard had been thinking, before Anne became ill, that he might go and deal with the situation in person. No English king had visited Ireland in person since the days of Henry the Second, but it had been an idea he'd been toying with for years -- mostly whenever his uncles grumbled about his constant failure to go to France. It's out of the question, now; he has no intention of being so far from Anne for all of Ireland, Scotland, France, or indeed England itself.

Of course, he hadn't been able to bring himself to go to Ireland before, either. It was nothing to do with Ireland itself and everything to do with the memory of Robert de Vere.

The fact that Edward of Rutland is kneeling behind him, strong hands kneading his shoulders as he reads the latest round of dispatches from the Earl of March and contemplates the particulars of the expedition, isn't actually helping.

It's been a very long time since Richard has been with another man. Years, even -- since Robbie fled the country. That has been a wound that's never quite healed; Richard can't say he hadn't _noticed_ Edward before, but he could never think of him without the sting in the tail: _yes, but he's not Robbie._

Still, he hadn't realized how much he'd missed it. 

Of course he hasn't _minded_ living like a monk, these last few months. He'd have given his very _life_ , without a thought, to save Anne, so giving up bedding her until she's well enough and willing enough is no sacrifice. Or at least it wouldn't be, if it weren't for the dreams. He can't remember the last time he's gone this long without bedding _anyone._ Most of the time he and Anne couldn't even make it through Wednesday.

It's not even that he's been worried he'll consciously yield to temptation. It's just that a few days ago he'd woken up achingly stiff with his leg thrown over Anne's hip and his hand on her breast, and although she'd smiled wearily at him when she'd noticed he was awake, he nearly leapt out of bed in a panic.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" he said, and Anne smiled and shook her head.

"Not at all," she said, and kissed him. "I'm sorry -- I know it's hard for you." Her cheeks flushed pink as she realized what she'd said, and Richard had smiled to see some color in her face again. "You know what I mean -- I wish I felt well enough to lie with you. I miss it too, I just -- "

"It's all right," he said. "You've nothing to be sorry for." He sighed heavily, resting his head against her shoulder. "Maybe the doctors are right, and we shouldn't be sharing a bed."

"But I like having you here," she'd said, reaching up to touch his face. "You know I won't mind if you go to bed with Edward. If he's willing, of course, but I think he's more than willing."

Edward has been, as it happens, _considerably_ more than willing. Enough that it makes Richard feel strangely guilty, which is not a feeling he's used to when it comes to bedding people, because Edward isn't Robbie and he isn't Anne and it doesn't feel entirely right to be _happy_ with someone who isn't either of them. Especially since if Robbie were alive and Anne were well he may not even have bothered. 

"I have to admit," Edward says, "I never imagined you as the type to talk about state matters in bed."

Richard leans back against Edward's chest, reaching up to cover Edward's hand with his own as he looks up at him. "Really," he says. "What _did_ you imagine?"

Edward's eyes widen, and his face turns bright red. "I, um -- well -- you know," he stammers. "Less talking about state matters?"

"Maybe I should just let Ireland go hang," Richard says. "Why do we actually want the place, anyway?"

"You wouldn't want to lose what your forefathers gained, would you?" Edward says, wrapping his free arm around Richard and leaning in to kiss his shoulder. "You'd have to conquer France to make up for it."

"God, no," Richard says. "If I wanted to spite my uncles there are easier ways. I could just call them up here right now. Except for your father, of course," he adds, when Edward's fingers clench reflexively against his chest. "Which really only leaves Thomas, and I don't think I could stomach that."

"That's very gracious of you," Edward says, probably only half joking. 

"Perhaps," Richard continues, "I should send _him_ to Ireland. That would teach him a lesson. Although knowing Thomas I suppose he'd be just as likely to come back with an army of the wild Irish. He'd probably get along with them entirely too well."

"Perhaps not, then," Edward says.

"Of course, it could only improve his manners."

Edward laughs. "What about Harry Percy?" he says. "Or his father?"

"Percy's in Aquitaine with John of Gaunt," Richard says, "and the last time I asked Northumberland to do something more than ten miles from the Scottish border he threw a massive tantrum."

"So you're stuck with Bolingbroke or Mowbray."

"It would seem so," Richard says. Neither option is entirely palatable. For one thing, it would require him to trust them. He straightens up, turning to face Edward. "Why don't you do it?" he says, reaching up to stroke Edward's face. "Pacify the Irish and bring MacMurrough to heel? You'd be a national hero -- and I'd be _very_ grateful," he adds, leaning in for a kiss.

Edward draws back afterwards, examining Richard's face as though it will magically indicate whether Richard is being serious. "I'd rather attend on your Majesty," he says, finally, ducking his head to kiss Richard's fingers, and Richard smiles at him.

"Perhaps I'll just send both of them," he says. "If nothing else, they'll cancel each other out."

Henry Bolingbroke is still dressed in mourning when he meets with Richard at Sheen a few days later. Richard can hardly bear to look at him. His wife Mary had died giving birth, not long after Anne was first taken ill, and thus he bears about him the shadow not only of his own grief, but of that which Richard has so narrowly escaped. He listens attentively as Richard explains the situation in Ireland, but something in his face is very far away.

"Of course," Richard says, interrupting himself, "if you would prefer to stay in England with your children -- I won't order you to go."

"No, my lord," Henry says. He lowers his eyes, looking for all the world like he's inspecting his hat, an ungainly black cylinder that he quite obviously wears so that he can imagine himself the tallest person in the room. After a moment he looks up at Richard; his face looks as though it's been hollowed out. "I _want_ to go," he says, and his expression says everything else for him. 

Richard nods and extends his hand, and when Henry's lips brush his skin he can't suppress a shudder; he reflexively touches the back of his hand to see if the flesh there has been frozen by his grieving cousin's touch.

Afterwards he goes to Anne's apartments and holds her close for a long time.

***

Thomas Mowbray doesn't _blame_ King Richard, exactly, for not going to Ireland.

This isn't an opinion that's universally held. Thomas of Woodstock, for instance, finds it perfectly acceptable to find fault with his nephew's management of the situation, especially in the absence of John of Gaunt. But really, Richard has only done what any decent man would do. If his Bess had caught the pestilence, and then God had miraculously spared her, Thomas knows perfectly well he wouldn't have dared to leave the country, either. Even if he'd been the first king of England in centuries to give two shits about Ireland. Of course there are things more important than subduing a savage island full of shaggy-haired, bare-legged ruffians.

Besides, there's no point in blaming King Richard for everything when he can just as soon blame Henry Bolingbroke. 

Thomas had of course had misgivings about the whole idea from the start. It hadn't been the least bit fair that he'd shared the charge of the campaign with Bolingbroke, not when _he'd_ been Lord Marshal of England _and_ Warden of the East Marches and _Bolingbroke_ hadn't so much as won more than a single battle, and that one only a skirmish really. For Christ's sake it was against Robert de Vere, and it isn't much of an accomplishment to drive someone off the battlefield whose only major talent is sucking the king's cock. Especially if your motivation is that you wish _you_ were the one sucking the king's cock. Which is apparently what you have to do to get ahead around here.

Nevertheless, they'd set out from England last autumn to tremendous fanfare. Queen Anne had even made a public appearance, to see them off -- it was the first time she'd been seen by anyone outside the royal household since she got sick. They'd had to carry her in a chair because standing for too long tired her out. It had been a shock to see her -- she'd always been so lively and cheerful that she seemed much taller than she really was, and she'd been inclined to stoutness as well, but now she looked tiny and frail and like she'd acquired a lot of sharp corners that she wasn't really meant to have. You could even see her collarbones. Bolingbroke had turned pale when he saw her -- _his_ wife had not been so fortunate. She'd died in childbirth a few weeks after the Queen's recovery. 

If Thomas were going to admit to any responsibility for the mismanagement of the campaign -- which he isn't -- it would be in failing to figure out until it was too late that that was probably behind what can laughingly be called Bolingbroke's strategy. He'd decided to fuck around in the hills southwest of Dublin, chasing after Art MacMurrough while Thomas and the Earl of March did their best to cut him off from the rest of Ireland. King Richard had ordered a blockade of the Irish coast, and the plan had been to fence him in and then starve him out. They'd all decided that Bolingbroke's particular skills could best be put to use turning the locals against their so-called king.

It would have worked. If it hadn't been for Bolingbroke's confounded sense of...whatever it was that made him decide that the best method of working through his aggression was to go directly after MacMurrough instead of raiding his tenants like they'd agreed on. He'd ended up wasting most of their funds, splitting up his army, and utterly failing to catch up with MacMurrough. They'd ended up making a truce with him instead and, after eight months of ineffective campaigning, King Richard had recalled them both to England. 

What Thomas _can_ blame Richard for, though, is that not only does he seem to think that he and Bolingbroke are equally at fault, but when they meet with him at Sheen, he refuses to hear any arguments to the contrary. 

"Do you know," he asks, "why we entrusted you with the suppression of this rebellion?"

He's pacing back and forth in a manner that undermines his efforts to be as formal as possible. Richard doesn't usually refer to himself plurally with people who have been part of his inner circle, at least at some point, but when he does, it's because he's furious. Unfortunately for his carefully-constructed sense of dignity, he is also incapable of sitting or standing still when he's furious. He stops for a moment in front of Bolingbroke, and Thomas assumes that Bolingbroke is giving him a _what the hell do I SAY_ look, and turning bright red on top of everything, without actually seeing it. It would be funny, if he weren't also being torn a new one. 

Then he looks over at Bolingbroke and feels his hands go cold, for Bolingbroke is doing neither of those things but merely standing at rigid attention, fists clenched and eyes lowered.

Richard, though, isn't looking for an answer from either of them. "We have always known," he continues, "that both of you are capable of great deeds in arms." He turns on his heel to approach Thomas, his face pale except for two flushed pinpoints in his cheeks. Thomas knows Richard well enough to know this is a terrible sign. 

"Perhaps," he says, glaring down at Thomas, "the fault is our own." He turns back toward Bolingbroke, clenching and unclenching his fists. "We had come to feel secure in your loyalty, over the last seven years." His lips thin momentarily, and then he adds, "Clearly I was mistaken." 

Thomas swallows hard, trying not to panic. He's not the only one -- there's a sharp edge in Bolingbroke's voice when he blurts out "My lord -- "

"Did I ask you to speak?" Richard snaps. He crosses the distance between them in fewer strides than should be physically possible, and then he and Bolingbroke are standing about an inch apart and staring at each other heatedly enough that Thomas begins to wonder if his speculations about the precise nature of Bolingbroke's jealousy of Robert de Vere were in fact completely accurate. There's a bright red flush creeping up from beneath Bolingbroke's collar, and after a moment he breaks eye contact and shakes his head. 

"I beg your pardon, my lord," he mumbles. "I meant no disrespect."

Richard draws himself up to his full (and damnably impressive) height. "Then you ought to have conducted yourself better in Ireland," he spits. "Now get out of my sight. Both of you."

They're scarcely out of the king's chambers before Thomas begins falling apart. " _Fuck,_ " he mutters, half to himself, pressing his forehead against the wall. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck._ "

Bolingbroke, sinking onto a nearby bench, looks down into that stupid hat as though he's considering crawling into it to hide. It's probably worth a try. He could just about _fit_ in it. 

"What?" he says. "Stop _staring_ at me."

Thomas scans the hall quickly, in case there's anyone around who might listen, then sits down heavily beside Bolingbroke. "You heard him in there," he murmurs, almost under his breath. "He fucking _set us up._ That fucking vindictive _bastard_ set us up!"

"Christ, Thomas," Bolingbroke groans. "Don't be paranoid."

This is so ridiculous, coming from Henry Bolingbroke of all people, who spends basically all of his time looking for every grain of potential offense in it every time Richard so much as looks in his direction, that Thomas would laugh at it, if he weren't feeling doomed.

"We have to _do_ something," Thomas says, grabbing hold of his cloak. "Rally the others -- I'll go to Arundel, you talk to Woodstock -- "

Bolingbroke stiffens for a moment, and Thomas can almost see the muscles in his jaw working, even under his beard, before he shoves Thomas's arm away. "Do what you want," he says. "I'm going home to see my children."

"You can't just _leave,_ " Thomas says, ignoring the slightly whiny note that's creeping into his voice.

"I can and I will." Bolingbroke stands decisively, brushing his cloak off as though he were shaking the dust from his shoes. "I want no more of this. Go destroy the whole fucking _realm_ if you want -- I don't care."

"Do you think that's yours to decide?" Thomas whispers, through clenched teeth. "Do you think Richard's just going to ignore you, if he's still holding grudges from seven years ago? How is turning your back on this going to do your children any good?"

Bolingbroke halts abruptly, turning on his heel with fists clenched, and Thomas draws back instinctively. It's not even that he's angry. Anger is something Thomas can handle, even from Henry Bolingbroke, for whom it may be the default state of being. What he sees in Bolingbroke's eyes is much worse: he sees nothing there at all.

"If you don't leave _right now,_ " Bolingbroke says, "I'm taking this directly to King Richard."

He never refers to the king by his title in private, usually. Thomas takes another step back, bowing his head, and Bolingbroke disappears down the hall.

Thomas is able, at least, to see Queen Anne before leaving. Part of him knows it's a stupid idea -- Richard was terribly protective of her even when she was in the best of health -- but it's worth a try, at least, before going to Arundel. It's common knowledge that Richard is constitutionally unable to refuse her anything, and if she's willing to put in a good word for him, it might change everything.

It's a fair amount of work, getting in to see her. He only manages it at all because one of her ladies has been enamored with him for years, and Thomas can be quite charming, when he feels like it. When he's finally allowed in, Queen Anne is sitting in the garden with the rest of her ladies, one of whom is reading poetry -- in English, which surprises him, even though he knows that Anne has been in England for twelve years and by now understands English perfectly well. She beckons him over, but before he can say anything she raises a finger to her lips, taking his hand and silently inviting him to sit on the grass beside her. 

The poem, as it happens, is about Esther, from the Bible, which Thomas would suspect was on purpose if he thought the Queen had a manipulative bone in her body. He wonders idly who at court she'd be most likely to see as Haman.

"Do you like it?" she says, when it's finished. "Master Chaucer wrote it for me. He read it to the court while you were in Ireland."

Thomas hasn't really been listening. "It suits you," he says.

Anne laughs -- more delicately than Thomas remembers. "That's what Richard said," she says.

"Of course," Thomas says. He looks closely at her face; has she filled out at all since they left for Ireland? It was eight months ago, and she still has hollow places under her eyes and her cheekbones. She looks tired, when she smiles at him.

"You'd like me to put in a good word for you, wouldn't you?" she says -- not ungently, but Thomas feels a bit of a sting, nevertheless. Perhaps she's not so guileless as he thought. But then, she's always been willing to put her influence with Richard to good use. There's a reason Chaucer wrote her a poem about Esther, after all. 

Thomas swallows hard against a sudden surge of guilt. "I only wished to inquire about your Highness's health, my lady, before I go," he says. He's pretty sure it's unconvincing. Thomas is actually quite good at lying, normally, but Anne is the sort of person it's hard to lie to. She's so frustratingly _good_ that she makes you want to be good also, so that you don't disappoint her.

"You shouldn't lie to your queen, Thomas," she says, still smiling, but it's a good thing that she inspires honesty, because if you _did_ try to lie to her, she'd catch you at it in no time. "It's very bad form."

"Of course," he says again. "I beg your pardon, my lady." 

"Then I grant it," she says. "But you must remember, Thomas, that you were Richard's friend once, and you should try to be so still."

"And so I hope I am, your Highness," he says. "Of course you needn't feel obliged."

"Of course," she says. 

"How _is_ your health, my lady?" he says.

Anne waves her hand in an airy, dismissive gesture. "Oh, you know," she says. "I'm not _ill,_ after all. Just...tired, really. I have good days, and bad."

"Which one is today?" 

Anne smiles, and squeezes his hand. "Now that's not your place to ask," she says.

***

"I spoke with Thomas Mowbray today," Anne tells Richard later, and Richard's hands freeze on her shoulders.

It's been a long time, now, since Anne first became ill, but it's still frustrating, the amount of time it's taken for her body to remember how to move properly after being confined to bed for so long. At first she could barely stand up without fainting; things aren't so bad now, but she still tires much more easily than she used to, and she's sore at the end of most days. She'd tried her best not to let Thomas know that today had been a bad day. "That doesn't mean you have to stop," she adds. 

"Of course," Richard says, bending in to kiss her temple. Anne smiles to herself and closes her eyes as his hands resume their motion, but after a moment she opens them again -- he seems distracted. She can tell because she feels less inclined to melt into the featherbeds than she normally does.

"You're upset," she says, rolling over onto her back.

Richard is frowning slightly as he stretches out beside her. "He shouldn't have come to you," he says, wrapping a protective arm around her waist. "He knows perfectly well you're still recovering. I should have given orders to keep them away from you, but I hadn't thought --"

"It's all right," Anne says, reaching down to take his hand in both of hers. "I expect people will come to me for help, you know."

"But you're not well yet," Richard says. "You need to save your strength."

Anne swallows hard. "But what if it's all I have?" she says. "What if I never get any better than this, Richard?" 

Richard leans in to kiss her forehead. "Then I'll still thank God every day -- every moment, even -- for you," he says. "We'll manage."

"I'm still Queen of England," Anne says. "I don't want to retire from public life forever. I'd feel useless, because -- I don't think I'll ever be able to have children, now. What else is there, for me?" 

She can feel her eyes begin to fill up -- it makes it feel so much more real, saying it aloud, and it feels _different,_ now, even though she knows that realistically if she were going to have a child she _would_ have, at some point in the last twelve years. It's one thing to think that if you can keep trying, but their one recent, halting effort at ordinary lovemaking had ended prematurely when she fell asleep in the middle of it. It had been incredibly embarrassing, although Richard had been extremely understanding and perfectly willing to accept that it wasn't his fault. They've been able to pleasure each other with hands and mouths and tongues, but while that's _lovely,_ it isn't exactly _fertile._

"You'll never be useless, Anne," Richard says, extracting his hand from her grasp so he can brush her tears away. 

"But I worry about _you_ too," Anne says. "Whatever's happening now, with Thomas and Henry -- I can tell you're afraid, and you haven't even told me anything."

"I don't want you to worry about it," Richard says, and then frowns, as if a thought's occurred to him. "Did Thomas say anything?"

"Not really," she says. "He started panicking as soon as he saw me, almost." She tries to smile, but only achieves a pained smirk. "I must look awful." 

"You look beautiful," Richard says, and kisses her, but then he frowns again. "I may have said some things to him, and to Henry, that were -- ill-advised." He chews his lip for a moment before adding, "I told them they'd disappointed me, after seven years of good behavior. I know it was stupid, but God, I was so furious I could barely see straight." He sighs heavily and rests his head on Anne's shoulder. 

"You think it has to do with the Appellants," Anne says, running a hand through his hair. This at least is familiar territory; Richard has worked hard to make Thomas and Henry his friends again, but he's always regarded Gloucester, Arundel, and Warwick with suspicion -- with _more_ suspicion, rather, since they'd never been on precisely friendly terms to begin with. 

"I think it does _now,_ " Richard said, pressing his face into Anne's hair. "If it didn't before. If Thomas goes to Arundel -- Christ, Anne, why am I so stupid?"

"You're not," she says, and kisses his temple. "You just have a very unfortunate temper."

"It's all going to happen again," Richard says, clinging to her tightly. "I barely held on the first time -- I lost Robbie," he says, his voice catching so that it comes out as barely a whisper, "and I've nearly lost you, and they think that because of that they can -- " He can't even finish the sentence, but instead swallows hard and says, "I won't let them, you know. Whatever it takes -- God, I _pardoned_ all of them." Something in his face turns cold and hard, and he adds, "It wasn't real, you know, they made me do it -- but I've been of age for years now, I could revoke them all -- "

Anne can feel her hands go cold, not real cold but that tingly kind of cold you get when panic starts to set in. Why didn't she tell Thomas she'd put in a good word for him? It would have been easy to say, easier to do. It can't happen again, please, God -- they can't bear another struggle like the last one. _She_ can't bear it, not now.

"Richard, don't," she says, withdrawing her hand from his hair and pressing her fingers to his lips. "Whatever you're thinking about -- let me talk to them first, at least. Please."

Richard's eyebrows knit together as he catches her wrist, kissing her fingers as he draws her hand away from his mouth. "They were so terrible to you last time," he says. "And with your health -- you shouldn't have to deal with Arundel again, not in your condition."

Seven years ago, Anne had spent one of the worst afternoons of her life kneeling on a cold stone floor, trying to persuade Gloucester and Arundel to spare the life of Sir Simon Burley, who had practically raised Richard and who had negotiated their marriage. She'd tried arguing logically, and then she'd appealed to their feelings -- a fatal error, since Arundel at least apparently has none. He hadn't even been moved when she'd broken down and wept, as much from exhaustion as anything, but had addressed her familiarly as " _m'amie_ " and told her to save her prayers for herself and for Richard. 

"I'd walk barefoot to Tartary for you, Richard," she says. "I'd willingly endure Arundel's company for a few hours if I thought it would help."

"But if it won't help -- "

Anne smiles at him. "It's not him I mean to talk to."

***

Thomas Mowbray is a fool. Everyone knows that. When Arundel came to see Thomas of Woodstock at Pleshy with news that his foolish son-in-law was in a panic and that Richard was preparing his vengeance against the former Appellants, even he had seemed doubtful. By Arundel's standards, anyway, since Arundel has always been willing to believe the worst about Richard, and he's rarely been wrong. Henry Bolingbroke has left court altogether and, with his father in Aquitaine and thus unavailable to hide behind, holed up in Monmouth with his family; Mowbray has been dismissed from court. According to Arundel, he's tried to persuade Queen Anne to intervene on his behalf, but has been unable to see her.

It's best, then, to be prepared. Which is why as summer draws near they begin mustering men and drawing up plans.

And then he receives a summons to Sheen. 

He's not sure why he accepts it -- it could very well be a trap. It's issued in the Queen's name, not the King's, and while he doesn't think Queen Anne herself would stoop to something that underhanded, he isn't convinced she'd stop her husband from using her seal to rid himself of his enemies. Everyone says she's a good influence on Richard, but when has she ever actually _stopped_ him from doing profoundly stupid things?

In the end, it's Eleanor who persuades him to go. Thomas may not trust Richard, but he trusts his own wife implicitly. She has always been friends with Anne, regardless of their husbands' differences, and she is quite adamant in her opposition to taking potentially-treasonous action against the King. When he arrives, Anne comes to see him herself, like a supplicant, instead of sending for him like a queen.

Thomas reminds himself that he doesn't have to be hostile or rude to her in any way to deny whatever she's asking for. He's frankly amazed she's bothered at all, after the last time she tried asking him for something. Perhaps she thinks he'll be a softer touch than Arundel. 

She's wrong, of course. Thomas has no intention of wearing the poor girl down before dismissing her, as Arundel had, but they _had_ been right to execute Simon Burley. It wasn't Anne's fault, really; she was a young girl and a foreigner and didn't know any better. Of course she wasn't really aware that it was under Burley's tutelage that Richard had grown into a spoiled, autocratic brat, or if she was, she probably didn't care, besotted as she was, and is, with her husband. Anne is a sweet girl, but there's no accounting for taste.

He bows stiffly as Anne comes in, but she's already motioning for him to straighten up. Thomas mutters a brief but fervent prayer to God that she's not going to kneel, because this whole situation is awkward enough. What is she even going to ask him for? Things have not actually made it to the point yet where anyone's head is in _immediate_ danger of being chopped off, and anyway _Richard_ is the one who's after people's heads this time. She should talk to _him._

"Please, my lady," he says, just as stiffly. "You should sit down." He motions toward the one chair in the room, and Anne smiles up at him. Thomas notices her pallor, the dark shadows under her eyes, and feels a pang of -- something, mostly irritation that Richard can't or won't fight his own damn battles.

"Thank you," she says, nodding to him, which he takes as a cue to sit down, himself, on a nearby bench. "You don't need to worry," she says. "Richard's gone to London. He's not waiting for you or anything."

"It pains me that you deem me so suspicious, my lady," Thomas says. 

"I only wanted to put you at ease." 

"Well, then, my lady," he says, "what can I do for you?"

Anne smooths out her skirts and swallows before looking up at him. "I wanted to talk to you about Ireland," she says. 

"I'm afraid you've sent for the wrong man," he says. "I've had nothing to do with Ireland."

"No," she says, and she smiles at him, very faintly, before adding, "But you're very angry with my husband about it."

Thomas opens and then closes his mouth, all too aware that he probably looks incredibly stupid, although Anne gives no indication of it -- she just watches him expectantly, her brown eyes wide and innocent. It's profoundly irritating, since it makes him feel rather bad about all the unflattering if completely accurate things he has to say about Richard's handling of the situation. In the event all he can manage is "You shouldn't involve yourself in this matter, my lady. It can't be good for your health."

Anne lowers her eyes for a moment. "That's what Richard said," she says. "You mustn't blame him, Thomas. It was nothing to do with what happened seven years ago. Richard meant no ill to my lords of Derby and Nottingham by sending them to Ireland. He only stayed in England for my sake. If I hadn't been ill, he would have led the expedition himself, and none of this would be happening. The fault is mine, not his, and I'll gladly take the blame for it."

Thomas stares, cursing inwardly. The hell of it is, of course she means every word.

"My lady," he says, more gently, "we may have passed the point where that matters."

"But you could stop it," Anne says. "Call off your armies, or whatever you're doing now."

"I would be happy," Thomas says, "to be at peace with your husband. This isn't out of spite, my lady. If you'll forgive my saying so -- I know he's kind to you, so maybe you don't know how it is for other people. The King can be a vindictive man. We are acting only for our own safety."

"Indeed," Anne says. She pulls her mantle about her, clutching the fabric tightly in her small hands. It makes her look very small and frail, an impression not exactly _belied,_ but certainly _weakened,_ by her next words: "And were you acting for your own safety seven years ago?"

Thomas straightens up. "What we did was to save the realm."

"From whom?" She has a strange look on her face, neither angry nor sad exactly. "From Robert de Vere?" She shakes her head. "He was no threat to you, Thomas. Robert was very dear to Richard -- and to me. What harm was that to you, and to the others?"

"I must admit, your Highness," Thomas says, suddenly formal now that he has something truly devastating to say -- and he doesn't _really_ want to say it, because it will break her heart, but he'll do it, since he has to. "It's very strange to hear you plead for your husband's lover."

He's not even sure what he expects, but Anne just stares at him for a moment, her expression unreadable, and then, inexplicably, she actually _laughs_ at him. It's utterly ridiculous, and yet he can't entirely deny, even to himself, that he's relieved.

"You think I didn't _know_?" she says. "Richard and I don't have secrets. We agreed to that long ago."

If he had been speaking to anyone else, Thomas would have considered that a threat. 

"I'm glad, my lady, that you come to no harm by this knowledge."

Anne lowers her eyes again, now completely sober. "No, you're not," she says.

"My lady -- "

"You had no idea that I knew," she says, and when she looks up at him there's something haunted about her face -- Thomas tells himself that it's only because she's thinner than she used to be, but it pierces him like a spear, anyway. "You would have wrecked my marriage, to ensure your safety." She smiles at him again, very sadly this time, and adds, "It's very ungallant of you, Thomas."

She looks so _fragile_ that Thomas feels immediately contrite -- she's absolutely right, of course, he shouldn't have said it, especially not now, with Robert de Vere long buried and Anne herself just back from the brink of the grave. He swallows hard, and lowers himself uncomfortably to his knees.

"Of course, your Highness," he says. "Please forgive me."

Anne takes his hand in both of hers and squeezes it tightly. "You haven't done me any real harm," she says, "so it's for God to forgive, not me." 

"What must I do?" Thomas asks. He sounds terribly abject, more so than he'd meant to -- what had possessed him to say _must_? 

"Talk to the others," she says. "They won't listen to me, but they'll follow you." 

"And King Richard?" 

"He's willing to meet with you," she says. "It isn't like last time, you know. Richard is in a much better position than he was then, and I _know_ he can be dreadful, when he's crossed -- but I've spoken to him, Thomas, and he will make peace with you, if you'll have it. I'll even come to any parleys that take place."

"He won't like that." Thomas is still surprised that Richard has seen fit to let her out of his sight.

"No," Anne says. "He'll come around." She smiles again. "You don't have to kneel, you know."

"Thank you, my lady," Thomas says, pulling himself to his feet with as much dignity as he can muster. Not quite enough. He can't help but remember her exhausted tears, after three hours of pleading with him and Arundel, and wonder if she's _trying_ to kill him with kindness, or if he is in fact just a terrible person. "Arundel will never forgive me," he groans, after a moment.

Anne smiles at him. "But Richard will."

***

King Richard meets with the former Lords Appellant on the feast of the Trinity. It had been, once, an ill-starred day, but a year ago, he learned that Anne would live, and now it is the most blessed of days.

They have withdrawn for the evening, because Anne has grown tired -- and, although this is off the record, because Richard has grown tired of his enemies' company and can feel his temper growing short. But it has been a start. With Anne at his side, they might even make peace.

"You were right, you know," he says, as they lean sleepily against each other on the settle in the solar. "I couldn't do this without you. I think you've actually saved my life," he says.

Anne draws him down for a gentle kiss, and afterward Richard wraps his arms around her, resting his cheek against her hair and breathing in her scent as though it's the very breath of life.

"You saved mine first," she says.

**Author's Note:**

> Edward the Black Prince died 8 June 1376, on Trinity Sunday. The account of his death is loosely based on that of the [Chandos Herald](http://www.elfinspell.com/ChandosTitle.html). In real life, Anne of Bohemia died 7 June 1394. **Whitsunday** : Pentecost.
> 
> **Venite exultemus Domino:** The beginning of Psalm 94 ("Come let us rejoice in the Lord, let us sing with joy to God our savior"). This psalm is always said at matins in the [Hours of the Virgin](http://www.medievalist.net/hourstxt/bvm1mata.htm) (also called the _Little Office of the Blessed Virgin Mary_ ), which was the central text of the medieval [book of hours](http://www.hrc.utexas.edu/enews/2010/may/booksofhours.html). 
> 
> **Cupping** has been around since ancient times, and was often used for bloodletting in the middle ages, as well as being used to drain plague sores (as in the fic). Guy de Chauliac's 1383 _Chirurgia Magna_ describes it thus: "With the second kind of cup, some dry tow is put into the cup and is lit up with a candle. Immediately the cup is applied to the skin and, as the air is consumed, nature (to avoid vacuum) pulls in the flesh and the fluid embedded in it." Like most medieval medical practices, it sounds excruciatingly painful. A **fleam** (mentioned later in the story) was an instrument used in bloodletting; you can see a medieval illustration of one in use [here](http://www.ecrazyworld.com/udb/article/1442614876.jpg).
> 
> The **Orpheus** poem Richard reads is _[Sir Orfeo](http://d.lib.rochester.edu/camelot/text/laskaya-and-salisbury-middle-english-breton-lays-sir-orfeo)_ , probably written circa 1300 (hence Richard's description of it as "old-fashioned"). I've gone with modern English for the quotations because it's modern to the characters in the story, as speakers of Middle English. The translations are my own.
> 
> The **eagles** on the ceiling of the [Great Hospital](http://www.greathospital.org.uk/about-us/great-hospital-history.htm) in Norwich, painted for Anne's visit in 1383, probably in honor of a donation made for the purpose of restoring the chancel, [are still visible today](http://www.thegreathospital.co.uk/images/eagleroof2.jpg).
> 
> Events in **Ireland** in this story are drawn from two historical campaigns. The planned strategy of blocking MacMurrough in, cutting him off from the rest of Ireland, and then starving him out by harassing his tenants, is based on Richard II's actual strategy during his 1394-95 Irish expedition (where it actually worked). Bolingbroke's failed effort to defeat MacMurrough personally is based on the Earl of Essex's 1599 campaign against Hugh O'Neill, Earl of Tyrone, which had similar results. In real life, MacMurrough swore fealty to Richard II and then promptly renounced it after he'd left; in the fic universe I've decided somewhat arbitrarily that he's less interested in submitting to a mere nobleman, even as a pretense.
> 
> **Bess Mowbray** : née Elizabeth Fitzalan, daughter of Richard Fitzalan, Earl of Arundel (the same Earl of Arundel mentioned, but not seen, in this story). Thomas's marriage to her in 1384, without Richard's permission, seriously damaged his relations with Richard, since Richard and Arundel were on bad terms even then.
> 
> **Master Chaucer wrote it for me:** While Esther is mentioned in the [prologue](http://omacl.org/GoodWomen/balade1.html) to _The Legend of Good Women,_ neither she nor most of the other women named in that passage have their stories told in [the poem proper](http://omacl.org/GoodWomen/). In real life, Chaucer never finished _The Legend of Good Women_ ; since the first version of the prologue promises to deliver it to Queen Anne at Sheen, it is possible that her death was behind the poem's eventual abandonment.


End file.
